


I rescued thee from death

by Sharpiefan



Series: The Shakespeare Series [5]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: July 1797, Rotherham Park. On a hot summer's day down by the lake, Robbie was mere yards from the lake when he heard the splash and the shriek.





	I rescued thee from death

_Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight._  
_The regent hath with Talbot broke his word_  
_And left us to the rage of France his sword._  
_Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath;_  
_I gave thee life and rescued thee from death_

      - Henry VI Part One, Act 4 Scene 6

**Rotherham Park, July 1797**

It was one of those glorious summer days when it was too hot to really do anything except enjoy the sunshine. It was the very first summer that Robbie had not made the journey back from school with his elder brother; Surrey had left school the previous year and was spending his summer in Somerset or Shropshire or wherever it was with Lord Hunstanton and his family. Viola was playing with Baby Olivia somewhere in the gardens near the house, and Robbie was at a loose end. He requested a lunch to be packed and then went downstairs to the gunroom, selected a fishing rod from among his father's collection and helped himself to some bait. He didn't expect to catch anything, the weather was all wrong, but spending a few hours down by the lake in the shade, doing nothing, sounded a perfect way to spend the day.

Robbie was mere yards from the lake when he heard the splash and the shriek, followed by yells from closer by. He dropped the rod and luncheon basket he was carrying and sprinted to see what was the matter.

Two of the younger footmen were standing on the bank, looking somewhat panicked, and there was someone in the water, splashing desperately. Robbie didn't even pause before tearing at the buttons of his coat, pulling it off to drop it in a heap on the ground and kicking off his shoes.

“You! Run and fetch Mr Braithwaite – tell him to bring a length of rope, as much as he can find,” Robbie snapped, pointing randomly at one of the youths. “ _Run!_ ”

The lad gawped at him for a split second before tearing off in the direction of the stables.

“I'm coming in,” Robbie called to the waterlogged third, and did just that.

“I've got you – let go of me!” He shifted as much as possible to be behind the person who'd fallen in, who he suddenly recognised as the hall-boy by the startling red hair, rather darker now thanks to the water. The younger servants must have been given the afternoon off, he thought inconsequentially.

“Let me go, I'm not about to let you drown now,” he repeated firmly, trying not to get more water in his mouth than need be, and at the same time attempting to manoeuvre the younger boy closer to shore. It did not help that he'd gone in at a place where the bank was particularly steep, and the water was fairly deep.

He'd heard stories of drowning people pulling their rescuers under, too, but he was mostly behind the other kid now, where it would be harder to be grabbed. It helped that his thrashing had died down somewhat once it had dawned on him that there was someone else there, someone who could swim.

The nearest bit of shoreline that provided an easy slope out of the water was only a matter of mere yards away, but Robbie didn't think that the boy was in any state to allow Robbie to get him there. In which case his best bet was the nearest point of dry land where an old oak tree spread its canopy over the water, and had some of its roots exposed. If nothing else, Robbie and the other boy could hang on there until they could get assistance – where Robbie could get out himself, usually, he was currently wearing pantaloons, stockings, neck-cloth, shirt and waistcoat, which were all waterlogged and weighing him down, as well as clinging uncomfortably – or rather, _would_ cling uncomfortably once he was getting out of the water.

“What's your name?” he asked conversationally, once they were in a position where drowning was most unlikely to take place, and the other had calmed down somewhat.

“J... Jem Robin... Robinson. Sir.” He was making a valiant effort not to let his teeth chatter, and turned to look at his saviour, flushing crimson when he saw who it was. “I – I mean, Mr Fitzgerald.”

Robbie grinned. “Jem's a good name.” He tightened his grip on the root he was holding and slipped his other arm around the boy as an extra precaution against him slipping back under. Doing so made him register that Jem was only wearing trousers and shirt and was as thin as a rake.

“Do you have a coat with you, or did you leave it in the house?”

“In t'h...t'house, Mr Fitzgerald.”

“ _Sir_ will be a lot easier to say, I'm sure. And in that case, you'll pass mine on the way to the house. I want you to put it on – I'm wearing a waistcoat and won't feel the chill so much – and we'll both go and find a hot drink, how does that sound?”

“S...sounds g... good, Mr Fitzgerald. Sir.”

Robbie let go of the tree root long enough to sweep drenched curls out of his face.

“How old are you, Jem?” he asked, trying to see whether help was on its way yet.

“Th... thirteen, sir.”

“Really? I thought you were at least fourteen.”

There was a small shake of the copper-coloured head at this.

“Jem... Did you fall in, or were you pushed?”

Stupid question; Jem clammed up immediately, which told Robbie everything he needed to know. “I ain't sayin' owt, sir.”

It felt like eternity before Braithwaite and another stablehand came running up, followed by the young footman (who looked even younger without his gloves and wig, and with his livery coat half-unbuttoned and askew).

“Mr Braithwaite! Over here!” Robbie could not risk letting go again to wave; Jem had gasped and gone white when he'd done so the first time, as though Robbie's hold on the gnarled old root was the only thing keeping him from going under – and Jem's knuckles were white where he was grasping the tree himself.

It would be possible to scramble out of the water with the assistance of the coil of rope slung over Braithwaite's shoulder, but it would be a messy and confused business.

“Jem,” Robbie said, and tried not to sigh at the expression in the boy's eyes as he turned to look at him. “I am not sure we'll be able to get out here. All you need to do is clasp your hands together, as though you're praying, and trust me, all right?”

Jem caught his lower lip between his teeth and nodded, though not without a look of deep apprehension.

“It's all right, I can swim, I just need you to trust me. When I say to let go, I need you to lay back – put your ears under the water and put your hands together. I'll do the work.”

The nod this time was very small and dubious, but it was enough for Robbie.

“Mister Braithwaite? We'll come and meet you round the corner, by the swing – it'll be easier to get out of the water there.”

“If tha's sure, Master Robbie!”

“I'm sure. I have to say, Jem, I'm glad you decided to fall in in summer; this would have been a lot worse in winter. I've known the lake to ice over enough to go skating on over the winter. Are you ready to let go now?”

“Tha willna let go of me, will thee, sir?”

“No, not till you can stand up and not go under. I promise.”

“A'righ', sir.”

“Ready? Let's go and get out of here, shall we?” Robbie shifted to wrap one arm around the younger boy's shoulders as he floated on his back, and struck out with the other, trying to ignore the way Jem was clasping his hands together and had screwed up his eyes tight.

It was not long at all before they were in water shallow enough for them both to scramble up the bank to the waiting arms of Braithwaite and one of the junior stable-hands, who were both holding blankets. Braithwaite was wearing a worried expression.

Robbie accepted the horse-smelling blanket with a rueful look.

“Jem. If Mr Hoskins or anyone else gives you any trouble, you just tell him to talk to me, all right? Now, I don't know about you but I need a hot drink.”

Robbie wrapped his arm around the other boy and the group headed back in the direction of the house, with Braithwaite pausing to rescue Robbie's forgotten coat and shoes.

It was maybe half-an-hour after Robbie had got back into the house, at the very outside, that he received a summons to his father's study. He sighed and glanced at his reflection in the pier-glass; apart from his still damp hair, he showed no signs at all of that morning's adventure. His hair was drying as quickly as it could, though not quickly enough; even in this heat his curls would take closer to an hour to dry properly.

He positioned himself in front of his father's desk once he was admitted, wondering what slip of judgement had landed him in trouble _now_ – he did not get summoned to see his father unless he were in trouble – or at least, he could not recall an occasion when he'd been sent for when he hadn't been in trouble. Any other time he'd spoken with his father, it had been over dinner, or while out riding, or when engaged in some other activity.

He composed himself, as much as possible, keeping his gaze above his father's head. The portrait of Robert, the sixth Earl of Rotherham, in his acres of silk waistcoat and the coat with cuffs nearly to the elbow, had always served as a useful device to help contain his nerves.

Lord Rotherham leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “All right, Robbie. I am hoping that you can elucidate the half-baked story I have heard, about taking a swim fully-dressed this morning? I had thought you were going fishing.”

Robbie shrugged. “I was, sir. Only someone ended up in the water somehow, and I, uh, fished him out, instead.”

“Yes, the hall-boy, I understand. Now why would he take it into his head to go for a swim and need rescuing?”

Robbie was not about to answer that question, and hedged the one which followed it.

“Did he trip, or was he pushed?”

“I have no idea, sir. I just heard the splash and saw he needed help.”

“Lucky you were there, then.” The statement was accompanied with a shrewd look.

Robbie frowned. “Father... I would never do anything of the kind to anyone!”

Lord Rotherham laughed. “Yes, I can believe that even your fag at school has an easy life of it with you. I did not mean to suggest that you would, though – I know you better than that.”

“If it was deliberate, sir, it wasn't me, and I'd bet it was just high spirits and not thinking things through.”

“Quite likely. Well done for going to the rescue. And, Robbie?”

“Father?”

"I am proud of you, son."

**Author's Note:**

> It's a modern life-saving technique... but who's to say it wasn't used at all back then. It's effective, after all!
> 
> 'Fag' in this context refers to the British public school system of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries of 'fagging', when a boy lower down in the school acted as a sort of servant or errand boy for a more senior student.


End file.
